Scrape the Flesh, Find the Bone
by chislarina
Summary: Tate, McAbby, McKate. Casefic. There's a serial killer loose, and the only thing the team has to go by is that every victim has their skin cut off their elbows with a creepy precision. There's danger for all surrounding the case.


**Welcome to my new long fanfic: 'Scrape the Flesh, Find the Bone'. I hope everyone likes it. Please review!**

**Disclaimer (valid throughout story): I don't own NCIS, I don't own any recognisable characters in this work of fiction.**

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_**Scrape the Flesh, Find the Bone**_

_**Prologue**_

_**Chislarina**_

I get bored, sometimes, being stuck in this naval base. I don't get along with most of the other wives. I guess that is why I go for these walks every night. This one's my favourite. It's always so silent, the only sound that can be heard is my footsteps and breathing. It gets a bit steeper around here, but that's fine. It distracts me from things I don't want to think about.

I don't have the easiest life at the moment, but it could be worse, I suppose. It all started when I met Edward, a month after I got married. At first, he showed interest in only being friends, and I was perfectly happy with that. But when he started dating Jessica, and was so in sync with her, I started to resent him, and, of course, her. Thoughts I hated having started swarming around in my head. Then it dawned on me that I liked him as more than a friend. That scared me more than anything else. I didn't want to love him. That's when it all went wrong.

Edward broke up with Jess about five months after I realised, and that was about a year ago now. For a bit, I was worried, unsure of what to do. It was an accident when I kissed him, and I knew that it was a mistake from the moment our lips brushed. Yet I pushed it further. Also, he's an amazing kisser. I almost had a heart attack the first time that he ran his tongue along my lower lip. And then it all went from there. I screwed up, and now I'm not sure of what to do, and it's tearing me apart. I should break up with Edward, but something tells me that this would be a bad idea. He's always so sweet, but sometimes I feel that there are more emotions hidden than what I can see of them. It scares me, and I sure as hell don't know what to do.

I'm standing at the top of the hill now, and it's the best place to be for a long, silent think. The air is clean and fresh here, and although there isn't a great view, I find it a beautiful sanctuary. But it's the place I feel the most alone. Sometimes, I hate the bitter silence. Tonight, I welcome it. The pure whispers of the wind dart through my hair, blowing my fringe into my eyes. I carefully tuck a strand behind my ear, before sitting on the cold stone bench. There's a chill in the air that numbs my cheeks, but I'm used to it. I hate heat anyway.

I glance at my watch, the hands glinting softly in the failing light, and I lean back on the bench. It's not a great sunset that I observe, but I still stare at it in fascination. There's something about the growing darkness that I just love. Every night brings a sense of mysticism, a sense of new air, fresh feelings. I can't explain it, but I love it all the same, but tonight, it's bringing a new, different feeling. As if this is the last time the moon will glow brightly over the Earth. It makes me curious, but I get the urge to savour as much of this beauty as possible. Well, I'm not complaining. It's this time that holds a place in my heart, and admiring it is something that I feel is my duty.

My nose wrinkles as I smell a roasted chicken from the house across the street. I've always hated chicken. There's something about the taste that I just can't stand. The scent of the bird is mixed with a breath of sweet potato. It's not the combination I would have chosen, but the chicken seems more bearable with the sweetness mixed in. I almost miss chicken, oddly enough. I haven't had it for about four years, and although I despise it, sometimes I yearn for it so strongly. Bizarre. I still prefer ham, definitely. I love the soft but at the same time, strong taste of plain ham, fresh, and slightly cool. I think though, that I have the weirdest taste possible.

I love the taste of victory when I write something. I would love to be an author, but I don't feel that I can make it. I write about the things that mean to me, but I guess I'm just scared that I won't succeed.

Suddenly, it dawns on me that someone is watching me. Urgh, how cliché does that sound, even in my head? My eyes dart around warily, before identifying where this person is. Some... person, I'm not sure whether they are a man or a woman, but I feel them staring me with amazing intensity. It's creepy, but astounding. About ten metres away, I'd guess, but as I eye them apprehensively- ooh, I like that word. It rolls around. Apprehensively-, they take a step towards me, then another. I tense up, ready to fight, or to run. Probably the second option would be best, since I'm terrible at any type of combat. Another step. Why can't I see their face? I find it hard to breathe; all I have is a quick gasp of air coming in at odd spurts. My chest is tightening horrifically.

Why am I getting so paranoid? I have no proof that I'm in danger. Sure, i have a strong sense of unease, but who ever listens to that? Sane people, that's who. Of course, I'm probably not sane. I've proved that multiple times over. They're coming closer now, and I slowly stand up, somehow managing to stumble with this natural movement. It amazes me, honestly. I can feel my muscles spasming, shooting pain up my left leg. Fear is making me unable to move properly, it seems. And I thought that was just an exaggeration in writing before now. Well, it isn't the first time I've been wrong. How ridiculous, that some things that nobody believes, truly happen. Fact becomes fiction, fiction becomes fact. Interchangeable.

Great, I'm racked with fear and panic, and my mind is going off on tangents that would amaze any psychologist, and maybe even reduce them to tears. Only a metre away now, and I can only just see their face. I don't recognise them, but their expression is so calm, so open and natural, I feel I should trust them.

"I love your hair. It's a beautiful orange." They murmur, casting a long glance at my face. In this light, it's still hard to tell whether they are male or female. And their voice is pleasant, but it doesn't help with identifying. I relax slightly, though.

On the edge of my peripheral vision, I see them reach into their pockets. Drawing out something that casts a glow in the right light.

I realise too late what it is. A knife. I open my mouth to scream, but nothing comes out. I try to run, but I only succeed in falling to my knees, scraping them on the rough concrete. I look up to the heavens in a pleading, well, innocence, I guess.

A sharp pain at my neck as the blade pierces my skin. I hope this pain won't last long. I hope this is quick. Please, just make it quick.


End file.
